Facets
by Nerikla
Summary: We are what we have become. Draco Malfoy confronts the monster within.


_for_

The light struck his face unforgivingly. His angular jaw was highlighted, the sun's brilliance illuminating the unnatural bump of his broken nose. His appearance was harsh; it revealed the reality of the morning, the tangibility of what was to come. Despite weeks spent in cramped quarters, Draco clung to a semblance of refinement. He held his head arrogantly, standing in the doorway with a hip cocked and an unconcerned frown.

As he proceeded into the room, the sunlight hit the crown of his white-blond head. The result was almost blinding. The ghost of a halo slipped round his fine hair, individual strands blurring together in the brightness. He lowered himself onto the specified chair, back rigidly straight, ankles crossed loosely. If his hands had not been bound, he would have placed them arrogantly on his knee. As the situation restricted his freedom of movement, he was forced to remain in an uncomfortable position, gray eyes focused straight ahead. He would not meet the gaze of any of the inferior beings in the room.

"Draco Lucius Sorcious Malfoy, you stand accused of nine accounts of murder. The alleged victims, by your hand, are Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, Lavender Thomas, Colin Creevey, Parvati Patil, Hannah Abbot, Zachariah Smith, and Michael Corner. How do you plead?"

Still staring straight ahead, a small smile flickered on the handsome young man's face. His reply was calm, voice clipped, "Guilty."

He ignored the whisperings of those seated in the room. He had no use for them. They were weak, they were all weak. Only Albus Dumbledore, seated so calmly in the stone chair to his left, was worthy of auditing this trial. It was both regrettable and embarrassing that the others were present.

Magical chains had fashioned themselves tightly about his ankles. Despite the fact that they bit into his skin, the cool metal was a welcomed sensation. If they thought it necessary to tie him down, then they obviously thought of him as a dangerous criminal. The notion was pleasing.

He paid little attention to the actual proceedings of the trial. He was expected to sit there and listen in silence, repenting his actions. He defied the court by focusing on the dents in the far wall at the back of the room. One was shaped like a hand.

_if_

His light steps left footprints in the snow. He had not noticed, so focused were his eyes on the figure leading the way. The tall man walked gracefully, white ponytail hanging over his velvet cloak. The pace was painfully brisk, but he continued without complaining. It was rare, this time spent with his father, and he wanted to savor it.

They halted at an embossed door, serpents carved into the black metal. Their fangs were bared threateningly, bodies coiled lovingly about each other. He averted his eyes, somewhat offended by the closeness of the carved creatures. He had always been taught that distance was best.

"Come in, Draco." There was impatience in his father's artful drawl. "Don't dawdle." The man looked down with dark eyes, holding the door open. His cloak shifted over his forearm, revealing the tip of a black tattoo. As soon as the small boy entered, he lowered his arm and the mark was concealed.

Lucius closed the door, sealing it effortlessly with a well-chosen spell. The chamber that they had entered was enormous, hidden deep within the forest on the property of the Malfoy's manor. With a few words and a flick of his wand, the chandeliers erupted in flames, brightening the gloom. The fire's reflection flickered in the hundreds of mirrors lining the walls.

Moving further into the room, Draco turned with an uncertain half-smile to look at the imposing man. Childish frown-lines wrinkled the skin between his eyebrows. "What is this room, Father?" he asked boldly.

Every step echoed forebodingly as the tall man drew closer. Resting on his cane, he tilted his head thoughtfully, eyes focused on his own elegant reflection. It was repeated in every mirror, a delightful optical image.

"This is where I became a man. In time, you too will learn."

_I_

Suitcases rattled uncomfortably beside him as he lounged on the Hogwarts Express. Draco stared out the window with a sour face, observing the fat raindrops trickling down the side of the train. It was a miserable day, not at all suitable for his triumphant return to school after a wonderful Christmas break. The holidays had gone far too fast.

"Looks like someone needs a nap," A girlish voice purred from across the compartment. With a visible effort, Draco turned to look at her face. It was sharp, softened by an unfortunate pug nose. If he squinted, Pansy resembled Harry Potter in a way that made his flesh crawl.

Clearing his throat, he pretended to smile. "Come here, Parkinson," He smirked, his eyes filled with an odd recklessness. He always used her last name, despite the fact that they were dating. He liked the sense of power it gave him.

With a chuckle, the thin girl moved to sprawl beside him on the cushioned seat. Draco discretely waved his hand at his two best friends, who were trying to open the door to the compartment. Crabbe and Goyle wore hopelessly idiotic expressions, and despite their bulk, they could not get the sliding door to budge.

He rolled his eyes impatiently. "It's locked," He mouthed silently as Pansy reached down to adjust the black strap on one of her shoes. When she surfaced, he was smiling blandly, and his friends had left them alone.

"I think I need help waking up," Draco drawled with a smirk, watching comprehension dawn on her face. He drew her nearer with strong arms, a predatory smile in his eyes. She was his.

_die_

"Look at me, Lavender," He ordered softly, his gaze intense. When the pretty woman refused to comply, he moved forward and actually clutched at her chin, jerking it towards his face. His fingers left angry red marks on her soft skin.

She moved her lips slowly. "You'll die like Dean did. I swear it," She managed to snarl, her eyes hot with hatred.

"Me? Die a fool's death?" Draco pretended to consider this before shaking his head, sending delicate strands of white-blond hair into his face. "Somehow I doubt that."

He watched the anger rise steadily in her expression. He baited her like a cat might torture a mouse, choosing words barbed with poison. He had always been stealthy, a fact that the Dark Lord appreciated. He had never been caught, and did not plan on being incarcerated any time soon. He was enjoying this new lifestyle far too much.

"I've always thought that was the weakness of you Gryffindors. You're so bloody intent on bravery and courage that you forget to look out for yourselves. You have no regard for your _own_ lives. It's why Thomas died, you know. And the fool thought that he could save you," The blond laughed, shoulders shaking with the intensity of his mirth, "He thought he'd mimic Potter. As if Potter would be stupid enough to die for a nobody like you."

His laughter seemed to pain her the most. He watched her thought process; hatred coursed across her golden skin, thick as syrup. He could see the rage building within her mind, ready to be released into searing words. Taking her by surprise, he sidled up to her pretty head, stroking her brown hair with long, pale fingers.

"It's a shame. You are beautiful," There was true regret in his words. His voice was soothing, gently withdrawing some of the anger within her heart. He leaned close and stole a kiss from her startled lips, pressing his mouth suffocatingly against hers. She struggled weakly, but she was already dying. It was futile.

_before_

He remembered things as white and red. The recollections were still hazy, murky as though he had viewed them from underwater. There was pain, too, though it was not unbearable. He had experienced far worse at the hand of his father, and at the hand of the Dark Lord.

There had been blurry shapes moving too quickly for his eyes to track. He was far too tired to pay close attention. He remained slumped against the ground, motionless except for the occasional wiggle of his fingers. Conservation of energy, he thought listlessly. He was slumped in an undignified position, but there was nothing he could do about it.

There just didn't seem to be a point any longer. His consciousness was slipping away, leaving him quickly. He hated being alone like this. He tried to grasp for the light beyond his eyelids, but it was fading like one of those dreadful Muggle movies.

_"Godric, why'd you have to go and kill him?"_

_"I- I couldn't have…"_

_"He's not dead. Look, he's moving!"_

A flicker of pain. The lack of oxygen was suffocating him.

_"You're mad, he's just lying there."_

_"No. Look at his fingers."_

He grasped for the white and red, for the soft shapes lurking just beyond his gaze. If only this didn't take so much effort. If only he hadn't been hit…

If only he wasn't drowning.

_I_

The dent in the back of the courtroom was certainly curiously shaped. As Draco examined it more closely, he noticed five individual imprints splayed like an outstretched hand. Intriguing. He wondered who had been stupid enough to expend the energy to destroy a wall, when there were so many more tempting targets in the room. Ginevra Weasley, for instance, who was seated in the front row clutching an ugly embroidered handkerchief. She was not attractive when she cried; there were hot, angry tears captured in her eyelashes, and her nose was an unpleasant shade of pink. Her chest moved quickly with frustrated gasps. He recalled that she had always been fond of Finnegan.

The blonde young man almost smiled to himself again, remembering a column printed in the society section of the Daily Prophet. It had contained an announcement of the engagement between the Irish half-blood and the Weasleyette. Hilarious. The two probably would have produced enough children to populate half of Europe, judging by their family histories.

"We will reconvene once a decision has been reached regarding Mr. Malfoy's sentence. The accused will be escorted to his cell," A deep voice declared. Strong hands lifted Draco from the cold chair, gripping his forearms firmly. They expected him to struggle, but he led the way, non-plussed by the situation. He reeked of dignity and gave off an affronted air. He did not feel that he needed to be treated like a common criminal.

_wake_

His mother had not been a gentle woman. Her face was sharp and pointed, like his father's, though pleasant to look upon. The crevices of her cheeks were terribly pale, tainted by a delicate pink only under extreme circumstances. At times she would consume copious amounts of alcohol, and the unnatural flush left her more attractive than ever. Her white-blonde hair was usually pulled into a severe bun, stray strands magically secured. The hairstyle might have looked pretentious on another woman, but Narcissa breathed elegance and poise. There was no question that she was an ideal pureblood wife. She had been born to reign; this was evident with every haughty step, every delicate smirk, and the set of her regal chin.

His parents rarely showed affection for one another. Occasionally their eyes would meet, and one would dip a hand in acknowledgement. They lusted rather than loved; even as a young child, Draco could see this. They prowled about each other, their gaze predatory, and when they came together, it was solely for pleasurable purposes. Flowers were never exchanged, and they never kissed in public. He had never even seen them hold hands.

It was not so much a marriage of convenience as it was a welding of power.

He had never seen his mother hysterical. She was always calm, always terribly icy. When his father had first been imprisoned, Draco had watched his mother sit in their living room. Hands folded neatly, she gazed silently out of a window, eyes bright and hard. Occasionally her pale eyelashes would flutter, or her head would tilt slightly forward. He had always wondered what would be her breaking point; she had been so strong that day, despite the circumstances that confounded her. She was a metal rod, unbendable and continually rigid.

She had gone to the Dark Lord for aid that night, concealed in a silk, hooded cloak. Her head had been held proudly, tiny spots of red marring her white cheeks. She had turned to her son before Apparating, her cruel mouth forming the words that would shape the next ten years of his life.

"The weak are fools, Draco. They will fall first."

After a pop, she was gone, and he was left to stare at empty air, his mouth hardened and cold, impossibly straight, unbearably proud.

_I_

The cell was frigid, the plain confines unsuited for a wizard with Malfoy blood. It was barely tall enough to stand in, and only as wide as the bare bunk lining one of the stone walls. A grubby corner had been designated to serve bodily functions. A basin of water sat on the foot of his bed alongside a roll, which flaked onto the empty bunk.

"Barbaric," Draco snarled, turning to the door. Repulsed gray eyes focused on the bars separating him from the rest of the world. They were purely ornamental; the cell was fixed with so many curses and hexes that to step within five feet of it would cause an unsuspecting visitor to drop dead.

He refused to touch the allotted rations; in time he would be hungry enough to consume the food, but for now it was far too plain to suit his tastes. This cell was an insult, and he intended to make the perpetrator pay dearly.

He closed his thin fingers around the black bars. They were cool in his grasp, almost refreshing. The metal bit at his chilled bones, made them hurt in a way that produced a sardonic shiver.

_pray_

"You're a sick bastard, Malfoy," cried the dark mouth, as hands beat helplessly against his strong arms, "A sick, sick bastard!"

He continued to strangle the young man, hands firm and unrelenting. He choked the life out of his old schoolmate, squeezing harder as he remembered his classmate's idiotic love of football. He remembered the maroon and gold scarf continually woven about the young man's neck, and how he had cheered when Draco had failed to catch the snitch, thwarted once again by the ever-present Perfect Potter. Draco had turned long ago, annoyed and disappointed, to see those bright eyes glinting at him from the stands. He was rather enjoying this final vengeance. No scarf separated his fingers from the delicate brown throat within his grasp.

Tirelessly, Draco fixed his fingers, staring into those pained eyes. He smiled slightly as the breath left Dean, the muted movements of the young man's body becoming rapidly more contorted, more animalistic. All hope left the black man's features, finally leaving him with hateful despondency. The expression was unbecoming, Draco noted. On some, helplessness was attractive, but Dean was a large, fit man constrained only by hexes. The panic in his gaze made Draco recoil in disgust.

"Bastard," gasped the dark man, tears welling, "should…die." Blood welled in his mouth, mingling with saliva.

Draco bent his handsome face forward so that his forehead touched Dean's. His flawless flesh burned at the touch, but he remained completely still. Gray eyes glared into dimming black ones, until finally those white lashes fluttered. He withdrew his hands, staring at the marvelous purple marks raised against his victim's flesh.

"I know," the blonde replied softly, "I should."

Dean twitched, and then lay still. A quick check proved that there was no pulse. The young man's heart had stopped.

Draco cradled the black man's head in his lap for a long time. Finally, with an infinite amount of gentleness, he pushed it away and laid it on the ground. His fingers stroked a dark cheek, strumming softly, patting the dead body as though it was a kitten.

He chuckled to himself. "Bastard," he repeated, rather liking the sound of the word. Bastards were not weak.

_the_

His back was pressed against the cold stone of a wall. Fifteen wands were pointed directly at his chest, each held by a steady, able hand. He looked at each wizard individually, repulsion in his beautiful eyes. There was an emptiness within his heart, so bleak that he felt as invincible as the wall he touched.

He recognized the gauntness of his own body. He had always been thin, but the athletic muscles left from idle Quidditch games had deserted his body, leaving behind only bone and flesh. He could sense the blood pulsing within his frail blue veins, slowly, his heart beating shallowly.

"You will all fall," they were a condemned man's words, idle threats that would never be carried out. Once the Dark Lord found that he was dead, He would cease caring. Vengeance might be sought, but somehow, he doubted it. The Dark Mark ached on his forearm, a quiet reminder of the destruction he had left in the wake of his existence.

They stared at him silently, unwavering. Their gazes were guarded; only Albus Dumbledore dared look into his eyes. Draco saw pity in them, and perhaps an expression of regret. He spat at the old man's feet. "Weak," he snarled, fearsome as a cornered creature.

One.

He tried to think of something to stop them. He had been crippled to the point where he could not curse without his wand. The Unforgivables had left his tongue dry and useless for hexes; a trickle of blood dripped down his forehead, caressing the fine angle of his aristocratic nose.

Two.

The trial had proceeded as expected. The sentence could no longer be imprisonment, for the notion of Azkaban had ceased to produce fear in any Death Eater's mind. The Dementors were, for all purposes, creatures of the Dark Lord.

Three.

The hatred within his heart withered it to the size of a pea. He glared at the wizards, dared them, watched as they jointly soiled their souls in the act of lawful murder. He laughed.

_Lord_

"Avra Kedavra!"

_my_

I deserve this.

_soul_

Home, is this home? I never imagined it would be so dark.

_to_

...or so cold.

_take._


End file.
